“Those poor wretches in that tumbledown hut? Who’s afraid of them?”
“They’re descendants of the Cowboys and Skinners who used to murder and torture people here during the Revolution. We’re in the old Neutral Ground, where those hyenas used to prey on patriots and Tories alike. They burned homes, hung old ministers up by the neck to make them tell where their money was, mistreated women—did everything horrible. Major André was captured by some of them just a few miles from here. Those Lashers are sons of one of the worst of the Skinners, and I wouldn’t trust you among them.”
When she insisted, he said, “You shall not go!”
Three days later he read in his Herald that Mr. Harry Chalender was so far recovered from the cholera that he had gone to recuperate at his farm near the village of Sing Sing, not far from the country seat of Mr. Irving, the well-known writer.
Sing Sing was only a few miles away. RoBards handed the paper to his wife, with an accusing finger pointing to the notice. She met his eye with a bland gaze, and said:
“I knew it. That is where I wanted to ride. But you wouldn’t let me.”
“Why didn’t you ask me to go along with you?”
“You don’t like Harry.”
This logic dazed him.
“Because I don’t like him, you are to visit him secretly?”